BIG SOUTHERN (CHAPTER TWELVE)

1863

URIAH AND LOUISA

He will not bring it up, her moroseness is too great. And they've had the discussion, albeit in frantic circumstances. What would compel her to steal, he does not know. That she justified that stealing stolen goods was not stealing any more than hanging a murderer was murder, he cannot agree with. That one's righteousness is so easily upturned upon an encounter with a random event, this is a bigger question, though he knows the prophets would say the fault is human and not built into the concept: righteousness is possible, is attainable, he and she have just fallen short. They, not righteousness, were weak.

The immediacy of the moment contrasts with the slow pace of the wagon and mules. He cannot push them any faster, the road is too rocky and unpredictable to chance a speedy pace. If Dirk and William, if indeed those are their names, have discovered the missing gold and are chasing them down, they will catch up no matter how swiftly they go. His mind races, but the Shanghi Plain moves sluggishly, the heat, the wind, the dust, the singing of the insects, is a thickness through which his body, all physical bodies, negotiate only with difficulty.

Louisa sits stiffly aside him, turning occasionally to look back at Emma. Sometimes they stop and Louisa wipes her scarlet, feverish face with what water they have. Being in a hurry, they didn't stop at the stream that they were told was the last, so they've little left, but Uriah says nothing about her wasting the precious resource.

The wind whips up to a constant bother, from the southwest lifting dust from the turning wheels, each of them screeching fiercely with each revolution, bits of silt and sand pelting them, downwind, with gritty annoyance. Occasionally, a small dust devil rises up and then quickly dissipates, yet another reminder—though of what he doesn't know—, another disturbance. The wagon rocks, Louisa sways, her grief warring with tiredness. The wheels need greasing, can be heard for miles, the sounds competing with the noise from the framework's and floor's straining boards, with the jangling gear attaching the mules to each other and the wagon itself. The sagebrush along the trail emits its telltale odor when the wagon strikes a specimen, unquestionably leaving ticks that will find every crevice in their clothing and flesh. And they are only just three-quarters of the way to the Butte, at best.

Riders are upon them as if by magic, Uriah's attention long weary and inward rather than observant and wary. The mules startle when the first man, bearded and be-hatted in black, the same color as his horse, grabs a rein to stop the team of mules. Two of the four men have drawn their guns, though unthreateningly. One removes his hat, satirically so. "Ma'am," he says. "You all look a mite tired."

"Do you have water?" Louisa manages to say.

The man turns to his entourage, his mouth moving slightly enough to suggest a grin. "Short supply here, ma'am."

"For our daughter, at least. She's sick. With the typhus."

He rides to the back of the wagon, peers in at Emma lying down in fitful sleep.

"We can trade you a bit of water for your mules," he says. "And give you these two horses to you with the deal." He turns to his cohorts. "What do you say boys?" He waits for a response but finds only three uneasily shifting bodies. "It's a precious commodity, I know, but a fair trade, wouldn't you say?" They display varying degrees of agreement and disagreement, but all finally nod.

"Ma'am, that good? We could use a pair of good mules to do the rest of the Lord's work today. We'll leave you Lewis's and Graham's horses."

Those two men display a grumbling disapproval but dismount, begin taking their gear and saddles off their horses. The beasts show relief from the unburdening, but when they shift their weight from one side to the other Uriah sees they are obviously lame.

He speaks. "We'll die without our mules. Those horses can't pull a wagon. They're riding horses. Lame to boot."

"Lewis?" the man turns to his grounded partners, one of them moving forward with his horse. "What would you say? Waterless or horseless—which is supreme?"

Lewis does not appear to appreciate the humor, but does not oppose him. "Best take the water, ma'am. Porter tends to mean what he says. These two just need a rest. You can ride for water." His eyes bear into hers and she knows he means what he said.

Uriah protests. He lifts a book to the sky. "Yours is not the Lord's work." His voice, though loud, trembles.

The other man now rides forward and violently grabs the book. He eyes the cover. "Brethren, then." He waves the Book of Mormon back at the others, then returns it to Uriah, who seems momentarily lifted. "You must read it closer, sir, for Brother Brigham has assigned us special tasks. We are his Angels." Uriah is no longer pleased, his shoulders sink.

Lewis motions to Graham, who starts unshackling the family's mules from the wagon's gear. "I ain't riding these," Graham mutters.

Porter laughs. "I believe you get to choose which one you do ride, Mr. Lowe. That is all the choice you have." He rides to the back of the wagon, throws his canteen into the makeshift bed inside. The girl does not wake. Louisa scrambles back into the wagon and opens the canteen, takes a cloth, rubs her daughter's face, her neck.

"That will be the tastiest water you will ever experience, I'm guessing, if you came across from Fort Hall." Porter looks southward. "That is a long stretch of dry." He scans the area. "And you, not on the trail, but forging your own. Why would that be?"

Uriah chooses to speak now. "Can you tell us where the spring is at the Butte?" he blurts. "It has to be near."

"You will miss it by some, we are going there ourselves," he nods northwestward, toward the Big Southern. "Business to do, you see. At Frenchy's Cabin."

Louisa glares at him, she had told Uriah the spring would be at the Butte's base, on the line of the robber's directions. He had ignored her, insisting they veer to the east, having seen what he called a vision. "Is it within walking distance?"

He smiles thinly. "It is a good long while of a walk, and I suggest you not follow us there." He points northwest again. "Lost River is still flowing. A bit, anyway. There's water there. Somewhat further, but not so far that faith won't take you there."

"We'll die!" Louisa exclaims. "We can't get that far afoot. It's got to be miles."

He nods. "Some miles. Truly. Again as far as you already came. Have faith, sister. Rest the horses a few hours, take them into nightfall. When they get thirsty they will overcome their lameness as if the Lord himself blessed them."

"We'll die," she says, ignoring him, her eyes and voice blank in unison.

"Everything has its reason," Porter says. He waves his arms widely. "Why else would the Lord have sent fellow Mormons to provide us mules." He tips his hat. "Give our regards to the Prophet when you see him in the Kingdom."

Bill holds the two mules by their reins while Lewis and Graham saddle them up, then starts westward. "Let's go," he says. "We've dawdled plenty."

Uriah and Louisa watch until the men leave view, then she drinks. Wets a handkerchief, dabs it on Emma's lips. It seems to waken her somewhat. Her tongue emerges, her mother moistens it. Her eyes open, her head lifts. Her mother puts one hand behind her head, holds the vessel to her lips, lets her drink. She sips, then gulps. Louisa pulls the water away, not wanting to give her too much.

Uriah watches, waiting his turn if indeed there is one. When it comes, he takes but little, though he wants more. When Louisa and Emma drink not their fill but enough, he says, "Either we move now in the sun or shade up under the wagon and then go in the night. Moon's not full but we will be able to see."

There was not much shade from the wagon and they crawl eastward in its shadow as the sun chases them. They drink in but sips, knowing what little they have and not knowing how much more, if any, would be at Lost River. The horses stand still for brief periods, then move restlessly with varying degrees of resistance. The wagon brake is enough to restrain their movement though from time to time the wheels skid when one of the pair decide to exert its will.

Emma's breathing grows more labored, her temperature indiscernible given the omnipresent heat. The tangle of thoughts in Louisa's mind wrestle, dread intertwined with regret, fear mingling with anger, a rare hope arising from time to time before quickly dying, along with an admonishment to pray that adheres to a harsh, punishing appraisal of the futility of doing so. Time wears on, words at last surfacing to break the interminable monotony. "What is their business, do you suppose?" Louisa asks.

He does not say, he does not know. "They were Destroying Angels," he says. "There's no telling. Nothing good. I think that was Bill Hickman." He thinks they should pray together to seek solace but knows she is past prayer.

Delirious, they notice but are unable to act when first one horse, then the other, works from its poorly secured harness. Louisa barely moves, Uriah makes an effort to rise but falls back to the ground almost immediately, knowing his weakness and the task's futility. He watches which direction the horses run in. "That's the direction of the closest water," he says. It was toward the Butte.

The sun is almost down, the temperature no lower but the sun at least not adding to it, and Uriah can now tell Emma is deathly feverish. He is certain she has typhoid. They might have it, too. She will have to be carried, she cannot walk and they can not stay.

They leave before the sun is fully down, the desert cooling quickly. At first, mother and father each take a side of the girl to help her along. Then, he lifts her to his back. She holds to him only briefly, then he has to hold her arms together as her body sags upon him. He bends from the weight, the Lord providing no additional strength, their pace slowing. Though the moon is bright it is not at an angle that provides the proper sight for their path. They are guessing, aiming for the Butte's north side, its outline imposing and evident from the moon's light shining behind it.

Louisa mutters. It sounds like repeated prayers though he doubts it is. He tires, they stop and rest. "It can't be far," he croaks, the water gone now. The lie gives him impetus to continue, as lies often do, and they move on, come to a band of rocks with no soil but a few sagebrush rooted in crevices and a cedar doing the same from place to place. There is no time to scout which way is best to go around the rocks, it is a choice, north or south. They go north along the band, skirting fissures, until they come to a place where more rocks force them back eastward. They look as far as moonlight allows, see only rocks. They are in the equivalent of a box canyon, one without walls but just as impassable.

They sit and rest. The moon rises. They can see the bank of lavas clearly now but can not see their end. "You go ahead," he says. "Emma and I will follow."

She refuses. "We will live or die together, just as we sinned together," she says.

He rests Emma's head upon his vest to provide some comfort. He finds a rock to lean his own head upon, one which cradles his neck. Louisa stares at the moon, then at the rocks. "We will not make it," she says. "There is much too far to go. We must pray. We have much to pray for."

Now, he does not want to pray. God, it seemed to him, was more the Indian God than the Mormon God. A jester with a streak of cruelty. They had taken the ridicule and scorn and abuse of the brethren who had not followed the Prophet Morris, so he knows that sensation well. It had been coupled with righteousness, though, the savior at their side winking an acknowledgment that He was with them. Now, it is the Lord's laughter he hears aimed at him and just as he would not give in to the taunts of his Mormon brethren he will not cower beneath the cruelty of a vicious God.

He does not tell Louisa his thoughts. They pray.

The cold comes, a relief at first and then a curse. The girl, though feverish, shivers, her body racked with convulsions. Her breathing labors. Into the night, her parents cover her with their bodies, console her, hope to heal her, without avail. She stills and they know she is gone. They wrap their arms around her body, each to a side, and sleep, their thirst forgotten.

They will stay precisely that way, save for their own meager shiftings in feverish semi-sleep, for two days before they too pass.

©2025 Ralph Thurston